Page 49 of The Woodcarver's Model
Estelle’s office was on a stretch of King Street East populated by design showrooms, law offices and trendy independent coffee houses. He frequented Café Olé when he was in the neighbourhood. Max, the proprietor, greeted him with a smile.
“Rob. Long time no see, man. Been outta town again?”
Rob smiled back. “When am I not out of town?”
“Someplace exotic, I hope. I live through you, you know.”
“You’ll go somewhere. I know it.”
“Not as long as I’ve got this place to take care of.” Max shrugged. “I tell you, it’s worse than havin’ a kid. Trust me. I know.”
“How many is it? Five?”
“Six, my friend. I gotta get this thing tied off,” Max said, pointing to his crotch, “or take up with guys like you. You got no idea how lucky you gay guys got it.”
“Oh, sometimes it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”
“Yeah, I guess. So, same order as usual for you and the ladies?” Max asked.
“You got it.”
Rob left with a latte for himself and small French roast drip coffees for Estelle and Rosie, then he crossed the street to the office.
* * * *
Fillion Literary Management was on the second floor of a former funeral business established in 1872. The name ‘Hallowell’s Funeral Parlour’ was still engraved in the red sandstone above the front entrance. A men’s tailor shop occupied the first floor. Estelle joked that it was a fitting building for two dying professions.
Rob found Rosie in her usual place behind the reception desk. She had been with Estelle for longer than he had, an odd thing for a receptionist in this business. Most tired quickly of the temperaments of the clients or the agents, or both, and moved on to less-demanding employers like doctors’ offices or police departments. Rosie was also unusual in that she was a writer. She had initially approached Estelle as a potential client, having written a lust-filled romance calledSummer in the Grass. Estelle managed to land her both a book and movie deal, then offered Rosie a job as a receptionist. The previous receptionist had left as a result of the tyrannical ranting of Estelle’s premier author Michael Frost, who that year had been short-listed for, but not won, the Booker Prize. Estelle encouraged Rosie to continue with her writing career while under her employ. She accepted the offer with the understanding that she did not file or fetch coffee.
“Well, Mr Hanson, it’s good to see you again,” Rosie said.
“Thanks, Rosie. For you.” He handed her the coffee.
“You’re sweet. Thank you.”
“Is she in?” Rob asked.
“In and waiting for you.”
Rob entered Estelle’s office. He found her sitting at her desk, behind a pile of manuscripts.
“Robert, darling, how are you?” Estelle growled.
“I’ve been better.”
“I heard that you had a good meeting with Cedric. He loved your article.”
“He did?”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
“Because it’s just what he didn’t want!” Rob said, surprised.
Estelle said, “I read it. It was perfect. Beautiful island. Charming inhabitants. Nature, quaint charm. It has a big goofy dog, for Christ’s sake. What else would he want?”
“What…did he send you a copy?”
“Yeah. He emailed me a PDF this morning. Here.” She passed him a printout.
